


Bound by Friendship

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Doriath, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mablung walked in search of Túrin, for where the king’s ward was, Beleg was certain to be. </p><p>(Or two times Mablung was troubled by Beleg and Túrin's friendship.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound by Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Liveoak asked for a fic about Mablung and Beleg dealing with youngster Túrin, and this happened.

When Túrin son of Húrin came into the king’s halls, his face filled with the same wonder that touched the expressions of all who visited Menegroth, Mablung thought of Beren. The boy had the same dark colouring and strong look. With the thought came grief for Lúthien, deep and sharp like a dagger to the heart. Still Mablung smiled when the boy’s curious gaze turned towards him. If Thingol and Melian welcomed Beren’s kinsman, he would and could do no less.

When Mablung looked at Beleg, his sorrow was blunted if not wholly eased. Beleg left his beloved marches rarely, and Mablung often missed him. Now he looked upon his friend with pleasure. Perhaps he could even convince Beleg to stay at Menegroth for another day or two.

Then he saw how Beleg looked at Túrin and worried confusion superseded his happiness. Beleg had been ever wary and suspicious of Men since Finrod’s discovery, and yet here he stood, smiling warmly at Túrin as Thingol welcomed the boy to Menegroth. Mablung watched Beleg closely, and so perhaps alone of all the company saw Beleg's expression when Thingol amazed everyone by accepting Túrin as his foster-son.

Unease touched him. Mablung trusted the king's judgement, yet he remembered the grief that Beren had brought to Doriath. It seemed dangerous to grow attached to a boy who would grow old in a handful of decades. Had Finrod's love of Men not led him to his doom? Had Beren's house not caused enough suffering here? Already Mablung could see future sorrow for those he loved, a faint echo of Lúthien's loss, and it troubled him. 

Melian rose to her feet. Her deep voice carried to every ear. “Come, let us welcome Túrin to Menegroth.”

Túrin sat straight and silent upon the king's knee, staring at everyone who approached the thrones. When Mablung stood before them, he was struck by the boy's grave look. He bowed first to Thingol and Melian and then smiled at Túrin. The boy's expression didn't change. "Welcome to Doriath, Túrin. I am Mablung." From the corner of his eye, he saw Beleg in the crowd, watching. He smiled more easily as he added, "I hope you will tell me the story of how Beleg came to find you in the woods. He is many things, but a good storyteller he is not." 

"Your Majesties, will you sit by and let Mablung slander me so?" asked Beleg as he approached. He struck Mablung's shoulder with a light fist. "Pay no heed to him, Túrin." 

Túrin's grey eyes warmed. For the first time since the king had welcomed him, he smiled, looking up at Beleg. "You're friends?" 

"Yes," Mablung said before Beleg could speak. "Though you wouldn't think it, with how infrequently he visits." 

Thingol laughed. "Now that you cannot call slander, Beleg. Perhaps Túrin and Mablung will persuade you to stay at Menegroth for a time."  

The smile went from Túrin's face. He looked sharply at Beleg. His voice sounded young as he asked, "You're going to leave?" 

Beleg frowned. There was a quiet struggle in his face.

Mablung's earlier unease returned. His requests for Beleg to visit more often had always fallen upon deaf ears. Beleg ever preferred the marches to Menegroth, and visited the city only for love of Mablung and the king and queen. Why should this boy's desires hold such sway over Beleg now? Did he feel some responsibility towards him? Mablung could make little sense of it. 

"I am the chief marchwarden," Beleg said slowly. "The marches are my home. But I will stay here until you are settled, and visit from time to time, if you wish it." 

"You are welcome always in our halls," Melian said. She had scarcely finished when Túrin said, "I do!" though the interruption made her smile. She reached out and stroked his dark hair, and Mablung's heart seized again, remembering Melian touching another dark head. If her own thoughts turned towards her daughter, Melian's expression didn't show it. To Beleg, she said, "We would all be pleased to have you visit more often."   

Hiding his concern behind a teasing smile, Mablung took Beleg's shoulder and pulled him aside for the next Elf to greet Túrin. "Well, that is settled! I shall have to find someone to air out your rooms. Though perhaps the smell will remind you of your cabin."

"You must find yourself better friends," Beleg called to Túrin, laughing and letting Mablung lead him away.

For the rest of the evening Mablung tried to ignore how often Túrin's gaze turned to Beleg in the crowd, seeking him, or how often Beleg lost the thread of their conversation, distracted watching the Elves of Doriath welcome Túrin. 

 

* * *

 

The forest was never silent, especially not to the sharp ears of an Elf, which could hear even the distant sound of a bird alighting upon a branch if he wished, and the near-silent movement of his fellow Elves across the forest floor if he concentrated. Mablung walked in search of Túrin, for where the king’s ward was, Beleg was certain to be. 

The boy moved quietly for a Man, but still twigs snapped beneath his still-growing and still-learning feet. Mablung followed the sounds. He entered the clearing, calling, “Túrin–”

A bow twanged, and Mablung leaped to the side. Slowly he examined the damage that the boy’s arrow had made in his sleeve, sticking his finger through the hole. 

The relative quiet of the forest was shattered as Túrin flushed scarlet and made his fervent apologies. The words crashed together in a hopeless muddle that Mablung didn’t bother to make sense of, except to pick out Beleg’s name and something about a hunting contest. 

Beleg wasn’t in sight, but the marchwarden arrived at a loping run, two hares slung over one shoulder. Beleg took in the scene with one glance and smiled faintly. He touched Túrin’s shoulder. “Peace,” he said, and the boy’s mouth shut so firmly that there was an audible click. “Look, Mablung is unharmed.” 

“I am,” Mablung said, and watched relief banish some of the warm colour from the boy’s face. He shook his head, amusement warring with exasperation. Doubtless if Beleg had come upon them with the arrow in Mablung’s arm he would have laughed and teased Mablung that life guarding Menegroth had turned him soft. “Still, you should teach him the difference between friend and beast. Not many would appreciate such a welcome.” 

Beleg tilted his head. “And yet I would prefer it over most greetings from the king’s counselors, who hide their blades in their words.” He gave Túrin’s shoulder a light shake, and Mablung pretended not to notice the way the boy’s entire face lit as he looked up at Beleg. In another season it might be Beleg looking down at Túrin, for the boy seemed liable to tower over all the Elves of the kingdom. “But come! Doubtless Túrin expected a deer instead of an Elf. Your clothing did you no favours there, my friend. I thought Menegroth fashion was colourful, not these shades of earth and bark.” 

As Mablung quelled the impulse to roll his eyes and look pointedly at Beleg’s clothing of green and brown, Beleg smiled at Túrin and added, “Túrin shall not win our contest if you make him tarry here with his apologies.”   

 _He shall not win in any case_ , Mablung didn’t say, for if Beleg wished to coddle the boy, that was his own foolishness. Instead Mablung tossed the arrow back to Túrin and said mildly, “A hunting contest? I know neither the stakes nor the rules, but the king is partial to pheasant. If you walk northward, I remember seeing–”

“Unfair!” Beleg said, laughing, even as Túrin flashed one of his rare grins that made him look a boy rather than a grim man trapped in a youth’s body. Túrin bolted, running swiftly and almost silently through the forest. 

Mablung watched him go, and then stepped closer to Beleg. “I came in search of you,” he said, watching curiosity and then slow dismay spread across Beleg’s face as he continued. “You are invited to eat with us in Menegroth’s hall tonight, so that you may tell the king and queen of Túrin’s progress.”  

Beleg grimaced. He cast a long look in the direction of Menegroth and muttered, “So long as I may avoid speaking to any counselors, I will come.” 

“This counselor will keep well away tonight, then.”

“You are my friend. I forgive you your title of counselor,” Beleg said magnanimously, but this teasing jest was made in an absent tone, his eyes passing over Mablung and looking in the direction Túrin had gone. 

Mablung watched him for a moment, fighting back a frown. Even after several years he didn’t understand his friend’s fierce attachment to the boy. Mablung had grown to love the boy as well, but it was a love tempered with the knowledge that Túrin's life was fleeting. Indeed, when Mablung thought too long upon it, his confusion edged to concern for Beleg, for when had caring for Men ever led but to trouble and grief? Beleg would only laugh if he voiced his thoughts, however, and in the end all Mablung said was, “Go and finish your contest. But mark me, I will drag you both to the meal tonight if I must.” 

Beleg laughed. “I should like to see you try,” he said. Between one blink and the next, he vanished. 

Mablung strained his ears, but all was silent, save for a faint rustling, which might have been Beleg moving through undergrowth or simply the wind stirring the leaves. 

“Show-off,” he remarked, and smiled. 


End file.
